Piano man
After over 30 years in the wilderness, I'm making music again. Sort of.
While enjoying my lovely little Me Party last year, I made a list of things that might make me happier than I was. At the time I had around three months of pay checks left and the corporate machine was in full flow, ready to spit me out - chewed up, wrung out, desiccated. I needed some shit that would be good for my soul. One of the things I decided to do was to learn piano.
Like most of my best impulsive, ADHD driven life decisions, I jumped to this conclusion based on very little. The fact that The Muse thinks I have ‘pianist’s hands’ was part of it, as was a throwaway Jason Statham line in a very silly Melissa McCarthy movie called Spy.
Statham’s character, Rick Ford, is a pastiche of the sort of heroic lunkhead you get in this type of film, as well as characters that The Stath essays so effortlessly portrays himself. In one scene where he’s at odds with McCarthy’s bumbling heroine he spits:
Well I make a habit out of doing things that people say I can’t do: Walk through fire, water ski blindfolded, take up piano at a late age.
My creaking old bones mean I am categorically not water skiing, blindfolded or otherwise, and walking through fire sounds like it might leave me feeling a little itchy. Learning piano at a late age, though, is a bit of me. Anything for a nice sit down.
As an aside, the bloopers for Spy are a right laugh. Watching apparently straight actors like Rose Byrne, The Stath, Jude Law and Oscar winner Alison Janney taking improv direction from Paul Feig is great fun. Spy is quite an underrated movie actually, and certainly better than Feig’s last effort.
Long before I acquired the services of a witch, the universe smiled upon me. A colleague had a spare keyboard, full-sized, that she was looking to get rid of, and if I promised I would use it regularly I could have it. On the house, frei, gratis. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I snapped it up. I found a piano teacher local to me, and I was all set. I’d be the living embodiment of Liberace and Little Richard in no time.
Oh, my sweet summer child.
In my defence, my overconfidence was not misplaced. I do have some musical nous. As a kid in middle school, I was in a brass band. I remember the process of picking instruments vividly.
I picked the trumpet at first. I could get a basic scale out of it but I was not the best burgeoning trumpeter in the class. My music teacher decided that my mouth was “too big” for the trumpet. So I picked up a trombone, arguably the most visually impressive and showboaty of all the brass instruments. After a few experimental toots, my arms were deemed “too short” for the trombone.
Imagine hearing that shit before your voice had even dropped. Sorry kid, you’re like a musical T-Rex, only you can’t even bite me for revenge. The 80s were savage.
Instead, I was presented with a euphonium.
“What’s this?”
“It’s like a small tuba.”
“Can I play the actual tuba?”
“No, you’re not strong enough to hold it.”
For fucksake.
Initial forays into my life as a euphonium player were really rather dull. The trumpeters were flourishing, the trombone player was showing off like a Harlem Globetrotter, and I was sat in the corner “rooting the rhythm” with a series of low slung semibreves1. Honestly, I think I invented the brown note.
A couple of years later I joined a wind orchestra, and I truly discovered the joy of playing the euphonium. Because although I had to contend with a load more smug soloists (you can shove your oboe where the sun don’t shine, pal), the range of tunes we played was significantly broader. And two sub-genres presented meaty parts for the low brass: TV theme tunes and big band.
Every term we would get our tunes to learn, and every term, without fail, we’d have some Glenn Miller and a classic 80s them tune. You know what kicks when you play low brass? In the Mood. The euphonium part of that shit has a swagger about it that the flautists could only dream about. Even better was getting handed The A-Team theme and realising that we, the humble euphonium section, were playing the part when Mr T’s credit flashed up on screen.
I got to quite an accomplished level as a brass musician, grade five or six, before the siren lure of smoking fags over the park proved too strong. It’s hard to hit a really oomphy, sustained crescendo when you’re sucking down Sovereigns2 every Saturday.
I had a couple of stints in garage rock bands that I don’t want to documented in great detail, for reasons of chronic embarrassment. Suffice to say that I was in the thrall of the Seattle scene and wanted to recreate it in suburban Surrey. I pulled bass duty for a bit (part Krist Novoselic, part Duff McKagan, about two feet shorter than both) and may have even contributed lyrics and vocals on a song or two. I pray to the great gods of rock and roll that those tapes are lost, lest I break my back out of pure cringe.
I always wanted to play the drums, and I have documented my prowess as an air drummer before. The actual drums, however, are a nightmare. Did you know you need coordination to play the drums? Well, you do. I am spectacularly uncoordinated. My feet flail around like I’m Michael Flatley. You know what makes this even worse? The Muse used to play drums and was quite good at them. Infuriating.
Fortunately, I don’t have to rely on my potted musical history - my piano teacher Lisa is one of the most patient souls on earth. Rampant ADHD means that I crave shortcuts to dopamine delivery; so when I sit down to a piano, I expect to be able to break into Rocket Man after twenty minutes. Even after months of lessons, that urge to jump in two footed is always there. It’s only When the Saints Go Marching In, mate - chill out. Lisa is great at making me slow all the way down. One has to walk before one can run. There can be no amazing outro to Epic without first nailing the basics. Correct posture, how to play a scale, simple chords.
Posture is vital. Perhaps because I spend so much time at a QWERTY keyboard rather than a musical one, or maybe because all of my piano heroes were self-taught, I have an insatiable urge to play the instrument with flair. I should be sat there as though I’m holding an invisible bubble; my hands poised and delicate, only making the bare minimum, necessary movements. Most days they look like a couple of praying mantises moshing to Metallica.
Outside of lessons, that famous Holmes impatience is unfettered. It wasn’t long before I was crawling the internet for shortcuts. Not long after starting lessons, I found a clip on YouTube which promised "Four chords that let you play 200 songs.” So I learned those four chords and strolled into my next lesson going ready to share my new found wisdom.
“Play them again and really listen to what you played,” said Lisa.
I played them again. Nope, wasn’t getting it.
“You just played Let it Be,” she said.
And Lisa was right, I had. Almost by accident, we discovered the best way to teach me piano.
For twenty minutes a week, I learn the fundamentals. Working from two books, both for kids beginners, I do rudimental exercises and play simple tunes like Jingle Bells and Brother John. I learn basic chord progression, how to move up and down the keyboard, and wonderful musical dynamics like fortissimo and mezzo forte.
For the last ten minutes of a class, I get to bring up whatever weird and wonderful piece of music has occurred to me that week. Not too long ago, I learned the main riff of the theme from 28 Days Later; after that it was the melody from John Carpenter’s Escape from New York - one of my favourite pieces of music ever. Have a listen.
Obviously, I don’t have these tunes nailed down entirely; I’m not any sort of prodigy or savant. But just being able to play a few snippets makes me feel so good about myself, and leaves me thoroughly relaxed and content. Not a state of mind I’m used to.
The other day I got home after a night out. I didn’t really fancy rewatching Brentford get schooled in the dark arts by Man City, so with the gaff to myself I plugged my keyboard in and had a quiet little plonk up and down the chords. Nothing fancy, just a little tinkle on the C scale, kicking out crotchets and minims for fun. It had the most remarkable, calming effect on me, and when I went to bed I drifted off almost immediately.
Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast3.
You may find this hard to believe, especially when I throw out my deepest insecurities and foibles every week on my Substack, but I am actually quite shy. God knows how that euphonium playing kid managed to play in front of people without a care. Did you ever see Mystery Men? Phenomenal, bonkers comedy starring Ben Stiller and William H. Macy. It’s about a bunch of inept superheroes with rubbish superpowers. Macy’s character hits people with a shovel; Hank Azaria throws cutlery; and, to the surprise of absolutely no one, Stiller gets really mad4. Kel Mitchell plays the Invisible Boy, a guy who can completely disappear but only when no one else is watching him.
I’m a bit like Invisible Boy when it comes to the piano. I love playing it when no one is around but I retreat into my shell at the thought of an audience. Even The Muse has barely heard me - I usually practice when she’s at the gym. I can’t do anything about my neighbours’ daughter, who is about twelve, has been playing piano for years, and probably weeps in open horror at what the Dog Man5 downstairs is doing to such a wonderful instrument.
Or maybe, because younger generations seem less quick to judge, she realises that everyone has got to start somewhere. If the Dog Man sticks at it, he’s only going to get better, more confident. I certainly feel like my confidence is building. In fact, I’ve got a new goal in mind.
In the Sidings at London Waterloo, there is a piano. Anyone can sit at it and play it. For months, I’d walk past it like it was a trap, public humiliation just waiting to rain down on me. Recently, that trepidation has lessened. I have an urge to play that thing. I want to sit down and break into Escape from New York. So if you’re ever wandering Waterloo and you hear Carpenter’s finest ringing out, come and say hello.
Thanks for being here. As we’ve established, my ego is vast yet fragile, so please show some love on your way out - reader interaction makes this gig so much more fun. Have your say in the comments, or restack the piece to help people find it. Or just bang the like button before you go, even that will help the algos find me. Coin in my Ko-Fi means I’ll love you forever. Cheers, hope to see you again soon.
Otherwise known as a whole note. It lasts for four beats. Strap in, compadres, this one is going to be educational.
A particularly harsh, budget cigarette brand that was incredibly popular in 1990s Britain.
And if you don’t believe me, consider the use of the F word in this piece compared to my usual output.
Why yes actually, I can relate. You know me so well.
Not an insult. A few of my neighbours call me the Dog Man, because they always see me out with either Lola or Peanut.
Hurrah for music! I’ll watch/listen out for you at Waterloo.
My son learned euphonium - picked up the biggest instrument available at primary school. Painful sound at first but got great joy from it, especially in wind bands. The day of his grade 7 exam everything shut for Covid so of course the exam was cancelled and the euphonium has sat in its case ever since. But then he picked up a bass guitar. Musical experience is never wasted.
It’s great to hear about your piano playing. I can’t play but love to listen. Interesting to also hear of its therapeutic effects. I’m sure you’ll get to take that seat at Waterloo one day.
PS problem with typing on black background magically resolved today with no effort from me.