We’ve had the piano for several months now. I play nearly every day, especially when I’m stressed or sad. It’s become a very personal ritual -- which is probably why I haven’t written much about it -- that occupies my restless mind and heals my winter-weary heart.
And yet, the comfort it brings me hasn’t prevented me from developing new (or rediscovering old) neuroses, especially in the category of how my abilities line up with what I think they should be. I try to remember not to be too hard on myself; after all, until November, I hadn’t touched a piano in twelve years. But I’ve found is that not only am I out of practice with getting my fingers to do what they should, but also with reading bass clef (which was never my strong suit, thanks to ten years of focusing on trumpet), deciding how to break down difficult passages so I can start to chip away at them -- all that stuff.
So last month, in need of some insight, I called Dad, hoping to mine some tips from his five decades of guitar playing. We talked about how to structure a practice session, the fact that plateaus are a natural part of making progress, the idea of running through your list of problem passages every day -- that kind of thing. And while all of that was great (there’s now a note on my music folder that reads PLATEAUS HAPPEN), the best thing I got from the conversation was some perspective by way of a music history lesson.
We’d been speaking in pretty general terms about my concerns and frustrations ("If you’re struggling with a piece for weeks and weeks, how can you tell whether it’s out of your league or you just need to work harder?") and I finally volunteered some specifics: "I’m doing well with the Sarah McLachlan. With the Beatles, I’m mostly working on later stuff from Paul: 'Golden Slumbers' -- "
"Oh, all that piano at the end of 'Abbey Road' is just gorgeous, isn’t it?" Dad asked.
"Definitely. But I’m about to walk away from 'You Never Give Me Your Money.' The left hand is just killing me. I swear, I can tell that Paul has bigger hands than Sarah McLachlan because I can reach all the notes in her bass lines."
"And don’t forget," Dad added, "he’s left-handed."
Holy crap! "Dad, I’d completely forgotten that! How could I forget? He’s Mr. Lefty Flip!"
"That’s right!" he answered. "So you can cut yourself a little slack on that, okay?"
I continued: "The other one that’s pissing me off lately is 'Let It Be.' Not the whole thing -- mostly it’s going well, even the bass part, which jumps around a lot. But you know that pretty little organ part in the middle, way up high?"
"Sure, sure."
"It’s so beautiful, but I’m just having a hell of a time putting the left and right hands together. The left-hand part is so tricky, but when I simplify it, it really loses something. I want to get it right, but this seems hard even for Paul."
"But that wasn’t Paul," he said. "That was Billy Preston."
"No! I knew he did the awesome solo on 'Get Back,' but I thought that was it!"
"Oh, he’s all over that album!”
Does it make sense that I felt really comforted by this? That I pressured myself to be able to hang with Paul (one of the greatest of the greats), but could forgive myself that Billy Preston was out of my reach?
Maybe it’s not logical -- unless you listen to the electric piano on "Get Back" -- but it sure helped. Thanks, Dad. :)
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