Music problem: People who own grand pianos but don’t play
Or worse, people who own player grand pianos and don’t play.
THIS. You want to talk about the “special understanding” of music musicians have that non-musicians don’t? One of my biggest professional pet-peeves plays out much like this every time:
- Arrive at mansion to play cocktail piano for an assemblage of drunk rich people.
- Strut over to gorgeous, gleaming, faultlessly polished grand or baby-grand piano, which may or may not be situated right next to enormous picture windows overlooking the city, the surrounding country, or the Japanese garden out back, depending.
- Sit down and discover that the instrument has not been tuned in at least 2 or 3 years; often keys stick or do not sound, action is stiff and uneven, tone is terrible. Prepare for sustain pedal to noticeably decrease in functionality over the course of the evening. Tacky Reader’s Digest pop music anthology may need to be removed from music stand before you can begin.
- What is supposed to be tasteful and sophisticated entertaining for money turns into the slow, methodical excoriation of your own ears for money. Tipsy rich people may complain about the music “not sounding right.” Until, that is, they become totally hammered rich people, at which point you are alone in your sufferings, at least up to the point where the inevitable group singalong of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” “Moon River,” “You’re So Vain,” or “Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong” ensues. Whatever the selection, you will have to repeat it at least twice “to get everybody in there this time.” But there is an upside: at this time, it is acceptable for to you to remove your jacket and begin drinking while churning out unimaginative renditions of Cole Porter numbers.
- Two to three hours and several stiff ones later—when you notice that there are only a few drunk rich people remaining and that they seem to be wholly absorbed in gossiping about everyone who has already left—get ready to spend a good ten minutes making the incredibly sloshed host or hostess understand that it’s time for him/her to give you your check; if you succeed, the document in question is likely to have liquor spilled on it when the drafter staggers out from some back room. You should inspect it to ensure it’s neither made out to nor signed by PIANO or MUSIC. As you take your leave, compliment the household on its beautiful furnishings and gently suggest that one piece of furniture might very much benefit from a tuning and voicing sometime real, real soon. “Oh, sure! (hiccup) My daughter (hiccup) took some lessons once, and we just loved your music. Goodnight!” is the inevitable reply.
- Go to the bank the next day; on the way there, continually repeat to yourself “I am not a whore. I am not a whore. I am not…” Then go pay your cell phone or utility bill, whichever is most overdue, and return home to work on your latest choral-orchestral masterwork, constantly exerting the effort required not to subconsciously infuse it with Cole Porter or Carly Simon. Accept that “Mandy” by Barry Manilow will work its way into a counter-melody somehow.
- Drift off (probably with your head on the desk) to uneasy dreams of spreadsheets to be formatted and flats of soft drinks and canned goods to be stocked, psycho-jetsam from your last few temp jobs.
- But take heart—Brahms and coffee in the morning will make it all better.
(via leadingtone)
