THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED

Not very many people know that once upon a time I took piano lessons. We had an old upright in the living room, and the parental expectation was that it should be put to good use and not be a dust collector. Both my sisters were accomplished enough to become piano accompanists at school, but I barely made it past go.

For one thing, I wasn’t big on practicing. Playing outside with my non-musical friends was higher on my priority list than playing the piano. For another thing, I couldn’t get both hands coordinated together. I could do the right hand solo just fine; same with the left hand. Try to combine them, though, and the results were disastrous.

On the rare occasion when I learned a full-fledged two-handed piece, I would go overboard and play it into the ground. This happened with “Spinning Wheel,” a rather frenzied song that I would play faster and faster, until my brain was also spinning, and Mama Bore would tell me to put a lid on it. I also did an obnoxious version of “Chopsticks” that she would try to tune out.

Once I actually composed a piece, which I called, “Storm.” It consisted of me slamming my left fist to the lower keys (thunder) and using the right fingers to tinkle on the high notes (rain). The whole family couldn’t wait until I was struck by lightning and blown off the piano stool.

When it was finally determined that I was not about to become another Liberace, (surprise!) my teacher waved the white flag and told Mom to save her money. The music world and I were spared further misery, and the ears of my family members were no longer subjected to an assault of all the wrong notes. Oh, happy day! Was I ever keyed up! No more piano lessons! All my sharps had gone flat for the last time! Bravo!! Bravo!! Standing ovation!! Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you very much. It's been a pleasure. May the piano rest in peace.