No amount of practising simplified Mozart pieces or running up and down major and minor scales would impress the piano teacher. I stopped trying.
In the pubs I grew up in, there was always a piano,
sometimes more than one, and before the juke-box ruled the roost, there was
always someone to play it. As a young child it was a skill I longed to learn. I
listened to my mother’s Russ Conway records and loved him. I plonked about,
wishing a proper tune would come out. It never did. I was enthralled by Sparky’s
Magic Piano which we had as a set of 78 rpm records, so badly scratched that
they hissed and crackled. I was about
seven and a half when my hands could just about stretch an octave, the required
size for piano lessons. A teacher was found.
At first, it was okay. I suppose it was the novelty of
actually learning to play the piano properly and it wasn’t all nursery rhyme
tunes. It was harder than I had imagined but I soon moved on to simplified
versions of the classic composers works which I enjoyed. As I got a bit older,
my problem was the teacher and I would dread Saturday mornings so much I would
keep a low profile, hoping my dad might forget to take me. He never did. The
lessons took place in a small upstairs room at the teacher’s house. The house
is close to where I live now and still makes me shudder, though he is long dead
and I’m sure his house is a lovely home to someone else. I used to wait in a
dim sitting room full of dark furniture with the deep tick-tock of a huge
grandfather clock and the piano sounds of the person finishing off their
lesson. Then it would be my turn. A whole hour in the little room, foggy and
stinking with his cigar smoke that gave me a headache and I would feel tense if
he left his desk by the window to stand behind me, always too close. The lesson
would begin with a run through the scales and broken chords to warm up then he’d
find me a piece of sight-reading that he would complain about. Nothing was good
enough. I didn’t play to the correct speed, so he fiddled with the metronome
and made me keep time with it over and over until I had it to his satisfaction
or I’d given up, fighting tears.
My pleas to stop the lessons fell on deaf ears at home. I
was at secondary school with homework and all manner of other things. I’d
passed some grades, it must be time for a break. I tried to explain what made
me feel uncomfortable and wary of the teacher, a hand on my shoulder, a hand on
my thigh, just standing too close to me. I couldn’t say it. Eventually, the teacher sent my father a
letter to say that he was discontinuing my lessons in favour of more promising
pupils. Good. I hope they push his podgy hands away.
I’m glad I learnt to play the piano. I’m glad of the
enjoyment I get from having the occasional blast, satisfied that I can still do
it. I’m not in any way a talented
musician – in the family that title belongs to my son and one of my nephews.
My Haiku poem, inspired by the
scales:
Now with both hands together
No! No! Start again.
“Just play the right hand
Keep up with the metronome!
No! No! Start again!
“What are you doing?
Did I say play G Major?
No! Don’t touch F sharp!”
On my own piano,
Happy and loving music
Without him shouting.
Running through the scales,
Smooth and shiny piano keys
And my eyes closed, tight.
He made me wary,
He was a scary monster.
He made me silent.
When I found my voice,
There was no one to listen.
PMW 2022
Thanks for reading, Pam x
5 comments:
I really enjoyed this Pam and can relate to the piano-lesson part if not the oppressiveness of the tutor (mine was a little white-haired old lady). I thought "I plonked about, wishing a proper tune would come out" was such a great observation/recollection and I love the haiku poetry. In fact you've given me inspiration for my own Saturday Blog. Thank you ;-)
Thank you, Steve 🙂
I loved reading this, Pam. I could relate to so much of it. It brought back memories of Miss Pelham on a Saturday morning - the set up very similar to yours, minus the cigar smells and wandering hands. She had no electricity and the house was lit by gas lamps! Unbelievably this was late ‘50s. She had no patience whatsoever and I can remember the frequent hand raps (I thought with a ruler, but maybe not). Good to look back with you. X
PS love the haiku!
Thank you, Jill. So many of us must have gone to our music lessons under sufferance. I was on full alert when my children were having lessons. One teacher used to come to our house and we kept the door to the room open. With other teachers I was present at all times, which seemed to be the accepted way. Safeguarding is a two way thing, thank goodness xx
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