Piano.
That's how it all started.
I was eight years old and my mum had found out that my school offered private, one on one, piano lessons. Although expensive, the school had graciously waived or reduced the fees (I can't exactly remember which) due to my mum being a single parent.
At the time I was more into sports such as football (soccer), cricket and fencing (yes, at eight years old I started fencing with a foil - my quest to become a worldly gentleman started very young). However, I was excited to learn something new and “tickling the ivories,” seemed very sophisticated to me.
So… My first foray into music began.
The piano teacher was one Mrs. Forsyth - no relation whatsoever! A burley, authoritative older woman, who at the very beginning, seemed soft spoken and pleasant enough.
The first few lessons, however, were both a surprise and a disappointment to me. No ivories (black or white) were remotely tickled whatsoever. Instead, I was subjected to page after page of sheet music enthusiastically and painstakingly explained by Mrs. Forsyth.
Although I'm sure she did a spectacular job teaching her students how to read sheet music, it made absolutely no sense to me. All I saw were little, poorly drawn mice running up and down equally poorly drawn ladders. To make matters worse, the mice were given creatively bankrupt names such as, “A Minor,” “B Flat,” and “F Sharp.” Surely there was room for a “Mr. Cheesy?” Even a simple “Bernard,” or a “Tobias,” would have sufficed.
To make matters worse, instead of confessing to Mrs. Forsyth - that I hadn't the faintest idea of what she was talking about - I chose the daring technique (which would haunt me later) of simply stating phrases such as “Yes, of course,” and “I see,” at the appropriate times, coupled with a pensive nod and a thoughtful rubbing of the chin.
My rouse worked for the time being and thankfully the mice (F Sharp et al) and the unconvincing ladders were soon left behind and the real playing began.
Mrs. Forsyth chose some introductory pieces for me to learn. However, instead of reading the sheet music, I watched Mrs. Forsyth’s hands and listened to the music she played. I then replayed the pieces back to her.
The real tragedy here was twofold: Mrs. Forsyth failed to realize that although the child in front of her was playing with much flair and enthusiasm, the sheet music was clearly ignored. As for my part, I failed to inform Mrs. Forsyth that I was playing solely from memory and that no mice, F Sharp, Mr. Cheesy or any other ladder obsessed vermin were consulted.
We were both about to play a most dangerous game.
After a few more months of lessons, Mrs. Forsyth was pleased at my progress. Incredulously, I had managed to bluff my way through the entire process without being able to read a single shred of sheet music or identify any notes on the piano.
But wait… Things were about to get worse.
After a particularly animated performance of mine with much flourish and gesticulation, Mrs. Forsyth took a deep breath and said, “Alasdair, normally students need at least a year before they can start taking their exams but I must admit, I think you are ready. What do you say?”
I didn't say anything really. I just enjoyed playing. I had even started making stuff up with the low notes on the left side of the piano. Crazy dissonant stuff, very dramatic, very manic, very awful, the sort of stuff you'd hear in a bad horror movie. The thought of exams didn't interest me at all until…
“If you took your exams,” Mrs. Forsyth continued, breaking the silence. “You would miss a day of school and there would be tea and cake.”
Tea and cake!?!
By the gods, I was in!
I knew then and there I was born to take the musical exam thingy of mice, ladders and other stuff! I was committed to it! I was hungry for it! (well more so the tea and cake part) But nevertheless, I turned to Mrs. Forsyth and said in a clear, shrill voice that had not yet entered puberty, “I will take this exam, Madam.”
And at the tender age of eight, without even knowing it, I had mastered the art of, “The Over Promise.”
The exam took place in a theatre. A crowd of people were already milling about, deciding where to sit. Some were there to watch, others were teachers fussing over their students. Everyone seemed overdressed for the occasion to me. Women flitted about in fancy gowns and men strolled around in dark suites, ties and even the odd bow tie. From my perspective, it all seemed out of place for a mice and ladder convention.
Mrs. Forsyth, still soft spoken and still pleasant enough, reminded me of the impending process. “So the first part, Alasdair, will be the prepared piece we already rehearsed. They will provide the sheet music, so just read as you play. A monitor will be sitting beside you and he will turn the pages.”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“Next, will be the impromptu reading portion. You will be given a short piece to read and then play. Take your time, read the sheet music, no need to rush and then play the piece. The monitor will again turn the pages for you.”
“I see…” I said casually while my hungry eyes scanned the surrounding area for any signs of either tea or cake paraphernalia.
“And lastly, the final portion will be you conducting a random piece of music played by the monitor. Remember, it will either be a ‘one, two, one, two.” Mrs. Forsyth began to raise her right arm in the air and flap it in an up and down motion. “Or a ‘one, two, three, one, two, three,” which she demonstrated by drawing a triangle in the air with her right arm.
I nodded pensively and rubbed my chin thoughtfully…
Alas, I had never understood what the arm flapping had been all about. If Mrs. Forsyth had simply explained that it was like tapping to the beat of a song on the radio, I would have crushed it, as I had already mastered snapping my fingers to Paul McCartney’s hit song at the time, “Coming Up,” with unparalleled precision.
But, unfortunately for me, as they say in the “music biz,” hindsight is 4/4.
Even worse, there had been absolutely no signs of any delicious tea or sweet cakes to be found in the entire vicinity!
I must admit, I was starting to feel ill at ease.
Students, all noticeably older than me, started to be called up to the stage. Everyone played well and I particularly enjoyed the “arm flapping,” portion of the entertainment.
Then, out of nowhere came an announcement that changed everything.
“Ladies, gentlemen and students, we will now break for tea.”
It was the sweetest melody I had heard all day.
My stomach growled like a lion stalking prey deep within the Serengeti. My young loins were taut with anticipation. I leapt to my feet, desperate to reach the sweetmeats before a particularly large, bow tied man (that I had sussed out earlier, which I solemnly believed would eat everything) could beat me to the free sugary deliciousness.
Foolishly, some grown ups allowed me to pass them by unobstructed as I dashed towards the confectionery.
Within moments, cakes of all varieties - round, sliced, fruity, glazed - were swallowed whole and sweet tea was guzzled down in rare fashion.
Fully satiated and with appallingly high blood sugar levels, I made my way back to my seat.
And then they called my name…
Rising dramatically out of my seat like an infirm octogenarian, I wiped the sugar sweats from my brow. My stomach was shockingly distended as I navigated my new and impressive “tea gut” towards the stage. I felt no fear. No regrets. The oceanic sounds of cupfuls of Tetley tea swishing loudly in my belly, only emboldened me.
Once I cleared the theatre steps and made it onto the stage, I opened the button on my school blazer to relieve the growing gastric pressure and sauntered, gut first, towards the piano.
I was met by the monitor, a thin, hawkish looking man with even thinner grey hair, dressed in tails. He sat beside me as I settled my swollen torso next to the piano and prepared for glory.
I played my first piece fairly well, considering…
Although, truth be told, my trademark flourishes and impressive gestures regrettably took a backseat to vomit burps, profuse sweating and cake induced flatulence (that I subtly blamed on the monitor with an accusatory glance).
But there was something else I should have realized at that moment - a life truth beyond the grasp of the innocence and naivety of youthful ignorance…
That there is a certain poetry to an eight year old playing piano under the influence of a catastrophic sugar high.
And that poetry is called, “hubris.”
For although I felt my performance had been a tour de force, everyone else in that theatre recognized a glaring issue…
I had never paused for Jeeves (that's the name I had mentally given the monitor) to turn the pages of the sheet music.
My rouse had been exposed. The cracks were starting to show. But I was gleefully oblivious. From my perspective, what could possibly go wrong? I was about to start the second phase. A phase where I would be presented with sheet music (mice and ladders) which I was to carefully read, translate and perform. My confidence, fueled by cake, skyrocketed, despite the fact that I had never, ever been able to read music.
I was in deep “sheet.”
Jeeves, still annoyed by my vomit burps and flatulence, presented the impromptu piece with much pomp and ceremony towards the three judges, seated to my right on the stage and to the audience.
I stared thoughtfully at the mice and ladders before me on the page and named a few of them. Hughie was on the top of the stairs looking down mockingly at Ralph and Ignatius. Satisfied with my mental scenario of class bias within mouse society, I slid towards the left side of the piano. I had decided, in my strawberry tart and macaroon frenzied state, to play one of my own “pieces.” Yes, I had foolishly, yet confidently, selected the infamous and terrifying, “Death Vampires of Alpha Cygnus Nine!”
A dissonant and disturbing series of sounds bellowed from the piano. Pounding rhythms, chaotic phrasing and insane musical choices filled the theatre with the call of… Well, Death Vampires, of course.
I finished my piece in dramatic fashion with tears in my eyes, due more to a particularly acidic vomit burp than an emotional response to my own art.
The theatre was hushed in silence. Every mouth, including the three judges and even Jeeves, who by the way, never turned a single bloody page, were left agape.
Yes. It was clearly obvious.
I had nailed it!
I stood up, still proud of my sugar belly. I looked at Jeeves knowingly and gave him a nod that clearly said, “You heard that right? Now you'll never be the same, but that's okay, it's the sound of Death Vampires.”
Daring Jeeves to do his best, I waited. Focused, determined and resolute, I stood defiantly for the final portion - the arm flappy thing.
The judges murmured amongst themselves before one particularly old one motioned to Jeeves.
The monitor flicked at his tails, shuffled some sheet music and began to play the piano.
I casually began my arm flapping routine with a slow and measured up and down motion. Gradually I changed it, more out of boredom I think, into a gentle swaying, like a welcomed summer breeze.
I felt my body interpreting the music and I glanced towards the audience. They were all wide eyed and silent, no doubt enjoying the intensity of my interpretive arm flapping extravaganza.
All seemed wonderful until I met the gaze of Mrs. Forsyth. For reasons unbeknownst to me, she had aged dramatically since I last saw her. Her eyes bulged and veins stood out on her neck. My eight year old brain attempted to process the emotions she was clearly displaying on her face. The best I could come up with at the time was constipation or rage.
Maybe both.
Nope, it was definitely constipation.
It also occurred to me that I might have got the arm flapping thing wrong. Without hesitation, I seamlessly switched to carving a poetic triangle in the air. To further emphasize the majestic flapping, I added a modest pelvic hip thrust and shoulder twitch to the geometric magic that was taking place.
Abruptly the piano stopped and shortly afterwards, so did I - but not before I softly arm flapped the faint sustain of the fading piano for good measure. Then, facing a deafening silence from the crowd once again, I bowed and humbly exited the stage, letting my exquisite performance speak for itself.
The ride back to school with Mrs. Forsyth was surprisingly quiet.
For some strange reason, Mrs. Forsyth drove a lot more aggressively back to the school than she had earlier in the day while travelling to the theatre. At the time, I thought she was feeling off from maybe eating too many cakes, like I had.
When we finally arrived at the school, she roughly parked the car. Her knuckles were remarkably white and she seemed to be gripping the steering very tightly. Too much cake for sure, I guessed. Her jaw was clenched and as she turned to me, she spoke through gritted teeth.
She was obviously still feeling very constipated.
“Alasdair,” she began. “You have no music talent, timing or skill.”
Well, I must admit, I did not see that coming. My look of shock and surprise seemed to make her constipation worse.
Also, Mrs. Forsyth’s soft spokenness and pleasant manner were noticeably absent. Strange but undeniably true.
“It is a waste of time for you to take further lessons and a waste of my time to teach you! Music is definitely not for you and I will be telling the Headmaster that you are not to play any school piano, ever again!”
Her words hit me like a hammer to the chest. My veins turned to ice. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was over. I would never experience the joy of free cakes and tea again. At the tender age of eight, that part of my life was over. I tried to reckon with my feelings of failure and face it like a man who would never enjoy free tea and cake, again.
“Yes, of course. I see…” I replied, nodding pensively. I looked up at Mrs. Forsyth one last time and rubbed my chin thoughtfully. I stepped out of the vehicle and quietly left her to deal with her constipation.
It wasn't all bad though. Kids are survivors.
I went back to playing football, cricket and fencing full time and although it was true that I was banned from playing any school piano, I did find time to practice with my organ now and again.
And that's how it started until it started all over again, at fourteen years old.
With drums…
