The Pianist

Dear Readers,

As with many of the grandiose plans and ambitions tkwek has had over the past 14 years, he's decided to scrap yet another plan. And that's the plan for his 101th blog post.

As such, since he's tired (haha unworthy excuse) and since he's just back from Emanuel Ax's concert (2nd Concerto, Chopin), he's decided to post his reflections in the form of a story. The main character is modelled after a number of people, including Azariah, a friend he just met today (: who's jon shin's classmate at yst too. sat beside him.

anyway, here's the story. a little long, but enjoy!

Nocturne.

Plop.

An evening breeze sent a chill spreading across his exposed face as it grazed his salty-wet cheek, accelerating in its gentle actions the path of that solitary teardrop as it coursed downwards, landing with a splotch on the musical score open in his lap.

A high G, smudged into oblivion on the cheap photocopied paper, scurried halfway across the page.

Sitting where he was, on a rare spot on the bridge across the Singapore River among gaggles of high-school girls and many more amorous couples no older than himself, it was hard not to feel privileged. On one side of the banks, bobbing like a lighted coconut on the still waters, sat the Esplanade with its billion-dollar concert hall – where he’d just sat less than an hour ago – and on the other side stood the other oh-so-recognizable icons of the Singapore skyline – the stately Fullerton, the tireless skyscrapers and the gushing Merlion rearing its head over the waters. Many a tourist, he imagined, had sat in this same spot and wept for joy. Maybe Emanuel Ax, the great pianist whose veritable performance of the Chopin Second Concerto he’d just listened to, had sat here and wept in elation, too.

But not him.

Poring over the scores of the same concerto, he tried to recreate the concert. After all, as a student of the concerto, this was a sort of duty to himself – to gain as much as he could from the grand master. The notes on his score, circled and highlighted countless times in his day-to-day practice sessions, and covered with little notes he’d jotted down during the concert, leapt at his glassy eyes. For every passage he perused, he tried to recall those crystalline sounds that had assuaged from the Steinway Grand, trying his utmost to unlock, through sheer memory and study, the secret to the maestro’s musicality.

But secrets he found none. It had been such an open performance, and the man himself (whom he’d met at the autograph session) such a cordial fellow, that it was almost impossible to imagine that Ax had any dark tricks to unlocking the world of music. Ax played with such emotion, stroking the keys as if they were his own children, yet not fearing to ‘use the rod’ on them when appropriate, delivering opportune vibratos and stresses to that row of ivory on ebon, that it seemed so natural, so matter-of-fact, as if telling the audience: “There! That’s how Chopin meant it!” without holding back any genius.

That genius touch was what he was trying so hard to unravel in Ax.

And so far, the search had been futile.

He thought back to those moments during the concert, like when the powerfully lyrical theme of the second movement soared above the orchestral accompaniment, or when the energetic third movement had sent bold triplets shooting down his spine. He also recalled those magical times when Ax turned to beam good-naturedly at the conductor from his seat at the Steinway, and as the conductor turned to beam back, the two great musician’s faces were curiously aligned with the hopeful face of a humble piano student in the very first row, who sat riveted throughout, pencil scribbling furiously away at the score on his lap.

But his feelings took a new low as another thought presented itself to him. Would he always stay at this level? It was a disheartening thought, and his pessimistic heart went so far as to endorse it, telling him that he’d forever be just that humble piano student, good enough for the front row but never musical enough to bridge that narrow gap and climb onto the varnished stage. He knew that his music just wasn’t musical enough – he was a good pianist (hailed among his peers as ‘Ax junior’), but his keen senses could tell a fundamental difference between his own playing and that of the legends he saw on stage. They had a unique musical touch, which he didn’t. And which till now, he was still searching desperately, fruitlessly for.

He pored over the scores again, vehemently digging up from the recesses of his newly-gained long-term memory more moments he remembered from the concert. One phrase of the first movement suddenly flashed back to him. And he remembered that its singular unusualness had struck him. It was a passage of descending triads – he hastily flipped to that page on the score on his lap – and while playing it, Ax had sang the phrase. It wasn’t a loud and showy disco singing style, but more like a passionate upheaval of emotions. It was the first time he heard a concert pianist actually sing the piece, and he wasn’t going to forget it that easily either.

However, he searched his trusty score again for any possible benefits of singing the phrase, and found none. It wasn’t a particularly lyrical phrase – indeed, how lyrical could prestissimo descending triads get? – nor was it a particularly climatic phrase. True, it was one of the more heated sections of the piece, but he found nothing worth singing about it. He tried to sing it himself too, but the shaky voice that erupted quickly banished his thoughts to other considerations.

He continued searching the scores, browsing among the pencil-marks and tear-marks that stained the pages side-by-side, getting even more frustrated with each disappointment. All the things he’d expected to find didn’t turn up – there wasn’t any special style of crescendo, any special form of trill that in following would make his playing more musical. Defeated, he temporarily shut off such thoughts and leaned against the cold marble of the bridge, staring beyond the skyline, yes, even beyond the concert hall, at that full moon that hang voluptuously in the sky.

Gradually, his spirits lightened, and as the tears stopped, the cool wind began to work its calming effect, soothing his soul. Maybe, he sighed, he just didn’t have that touch yet. He’d just have to practice more. And maybe it was pointless crying about such things. Maybe it was impossible to gain musicality like that – he’d ask his teacher about it?

He stood up, stretched, and picking up his scores, headed to the Starbucks along the quayside before heading home. In no particular mood to arrive home to a pile of unfinished homework, he bought himself an iced latte and sat, meditatively, at a table.

People strolled past, and the infectious nightlife of the quay warmed him to the bones. Gradually, he stopped thinking about the concert, about the piece, even about Ax – but not about music. He thought of the friends he’d met in the music circle – just today, sitting beside him in the concert was an old acquaintance from his primary school strings ensemble. And over dinner he’d caught up with a harpist and a violinist as well – two people he’d not spoken to for ages. He also thought about the many teachers who’d met and moved him with their caring words, conductors who’d taught him a thing or two about working with other musicians. He thought about the joys he’d had playing music. Music, he realized, was his life. And the sudden realization of how much he loved music struck him like the apex of a Chopin concerto.

Which, just at that point, he began whistling.

It came naturally to him, the air flowing out of that kiss-shaped aperture in his lips, forming tones and overtones as he picked up the main melody of the concerto. The piece was familiar to him, for he was learning it, and he whistled over the grandiose main theme, the flurry of semiquavers, the beautiful semi-lyrical line and… and…

He caught himself.

He whistled what he’d just whistled again.

It was a series of prestissimo descending triads.

And then he knew just what the secret of the masters was – not any particular playing style, not any famous teacher who’d gave them skill and sound over the years. Their key to musicality was deceptively simple – they loved the music they played. And they didn’t play it to meet deadlines, to please teachers, to attain perfection, or even, as he once had played it, to obtain musicality. They played it because –

They loved it.