First Gig

Today's post is one of those accountings that had to mellow and age before I thought about posting it here.

April 12, 2015

Son performed his first paid concert yesterday. He played for an hour at the Rock Creek Retirement home on an amplified grand piano perched on an elevated stage in the dining room.

At first there were only one or two residents listening. As the hour progressed, the parade of slow walkers shuffled by and the dining room slowly filled with old folks – tall, short, fat, thin, male female, each a character of his or her own. Our friend Marita (who is a resident, and was key in getting Brett there) sat and gave us the running commentary. “He’s gay.” “That lady is 93 years old and sharper than sharp.” “She’s the village gossip.” “That one is never happy with anything.  She can’t find a thing she can’t complain about.” “This one is my best friend.” “He supposedly has a girlfriend.  I can’t imagine how lonely that lady must be to put up with him.”

You could tell that even the first one or two audience members were attentive and mesmerized. Their feeble hands clapping after every piece. Their faces warm and alive. Eyes sparkling with approval.

We sat on a sofa in the hallway where we could see the full scale of the scene. A tall thin old guy did slow circles in his walker. He had a permanent scowl – an expression of deep umbrage – etched upon his face. Tall, lean, bald and permanently peeved, Mr. Grumpy shuffled in and out of view in a regular orbit. His young Filipino nurse followed a few feet behind him, trying without much success to guide him to his room or some other place where he was supposed to be.

Marita said, “Mr. Grumpy likes the music.  That’s why he keeps coming back here.”

About 45 minutes into the playing, Mr. Grumpy detoured from his circuit to approach me. His eyebrows and eyes were still frozen into an expression of outrage, but in response to my smile, his mouth briefly flashed a grimace – a clear Mr. Grumpy show of friendliness.

He said, “There’s not a one in here has more than a third grade education.” Then he stared at me.

“Oh?  That’s too bad,” I smiled and nodded sympathetically.

“Not a one. You won’t find anyone here with more than a third grade education.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.”

“Well, except for the pianist. You can tell that pianist is educated. Not a single other one here has any education at tall.”

“The pianist is my son.”

“You should be proud. You can tell he has an education.”

At this point Marita was telling me to tell Mr. Grumpy what I do for a living.

“I’m a school administrator.”

“A principal? Then you can tell – no one here has more than a third grade education.”

“Well, you seem like an educated person.”

His scowl turned more pronounced.  “If I were educated, I wouldn’t be here!”

Oh my.

As the time moved on, the dining room filled. Among the later arrivers was a man who sat near the front and was so animated by the music he nodded his head and moved his hands to the beat. When Son’s fingers would play a complicated run, this man would look at his table mates and mouth, “Wow!”
  

One of the earlier audience members had to leave the room. (Probably a bathroom call.) As he passed us by in his walker, he said, “He’s good.  This one’s good.”

When the concert ended, Son stood up to descend the stage stairs. The room exploded in applause. One sweet little lady came up to him. She clasped her hands in his and said, “You are a star. You are a star.”

I said, “This is his first concert.”

She said, “He is going to be a star and I just know it. Honey, where did you study?”

“Sunset High School. I’m a senior.”

She said, “I thought surely you were from Julliard. You are a star. Please come back. We love you.”

Son was sweaty and tired. He had had a few stumbles on notes – which captivated his thoughts. The most eventful thing for him was that he experienced the thing all performers do sooner or later. He had a moment of, for lack of any better term, “stage fright”. His brain completely gave out on him. Playing one of the most complex Beethoven pieces, which is also one he knows the very best back to front, his mind suddenly went blank in the middle of the third movement. He simply lost it. Since he plays completely without a written score, he had no external scaffold. No way to access the melody. He tried, fumbling around, but it was gone. Eventually he went on to another piece. 

In the car on the way home, I told him the stage fright thing happens. He was lucky it happened with this wonderful audience of adoring older people whose hearing is far from great. Also, most non-musical people would not really notice if a piece fell apart like that.

He asked how to handle it. I told him that if he is performing in a formal concert he will usually have to play one piece which he will know so well it won’t disappear on him. Part of what happened here was that he had been playing for a while under the pressure of live performance and each piece is incredibly complex.  His brain was on overload.

I told him that pianists who are playing many pieces to fill an hour or more are expected to fill the air with music – not play any one piece perfectly as written.  In this case, he can find a way to resolve the chord progression musically and exit the piece – something he well understands how to do. It was a good experience for him to have that happen. I recounted the time that stage fright happened to me. I was playing the piano for the production of Godspell at the Metropolitan Theatre in downtown Medellin, Colombia.  It happened during the piece I knew by far the best. Suddenly I lost the connection. The piano went silent. Dancers, electric guitar, drums played on…. but the piano stopped. It was mortifying. You never forget it.

When we got home, Marita called. “Rave reviews!  Rave reviews!  The manager told all the people who were asking about that pianist that they could thank Marita for bringing him here.  They asked me, ‘Who were they?  Are they your relatives?’.  I wanted to tell them, ‘Yeah.  They are my brothers and sister in Christ.  But I just said they are my friends.’  Rave reviews.  Tell that boy he got rave reviews.  They want him back.”

So there you have it.  Son earned his first pay yesterday.  He’s official.