I sat at the back of the packed hall, waiting for my turn to perform a duet with the resident flautist. We were last on the program, the highlight of the evening – the finale. It would be my formal debut into the new school community, both as a teacher and accompanist. It would also be my debut playing a classical piece after ten years of rock and roll, but that bit of info I kept to myself.
Financial desperation and a tad of hubris led me to take the job as a piano accompanist at the school where my wife graduated. There was an opening and I auditioned. As a kid I’d taken piano lessons for a couple of years, but then dropped it to play guitar. I went back to playing piano when I noticed most rock bands needed keyboardists. I played by ear and improvised, emulating maestros like Rick Wakeman, Keith Emerson, Vangelis and Chick Corea. After my stint as a rock musician I resumed my academic studies, went to grad school, met my wife, and, in order to accompany her on the violin, decided to learn how to read music again. By the time I auditioned I could play two pieces by heart. I only pretended I could read the music. They loved my improvisations. I got the job and now had to pay my dues.
The air was stuffy and the program was too long. I hadn’t wanted to play with Mrs. Googlin. She was the best flautist around and I didn’t feel ready to play publicly yet, especially not a piece by Bach; the driving polyphonic texture confused my fingers. But she assured me it was very simple and that I would have no trouble at all. She’d heard me play a few times at different events – coffee houses, parties, cabarets, weddings – but each time I’d played by ear, or improvised. She thought I was brilliant, and besides, she couldn’t find anybody else. I yielded.
And now I was mentally preparing myself, going over every note in my mind, imagining my fingers flitting with precision over the keys. The children were getting increasingly restless and the program was never-ending.
I’d practiced like mad. I learned the whole thing by heart (my third piece). I played it ad nauseam, to the exasperation of family and neighbors. But when I rehearsed together with Mrs. Googlin I still faltered. She assured me that I’d be fine. “And you still have a few days to perfect your playing.” We hadn’t practiced since, and now I sat in this stifling concert hall, waiting to go on.
At last our turn came. Amidst applause we stepped on stage. As I sat down by the grand piano she whispered to me, “Whatever you do, don’t stop. Just keep on playing.” I nodded. The expectant silence set in. My head was filled with noxious smog after the long wait and the lack of ventilation (too much carbon dioxide). Mrs. Googlin nodded to me and I began.
Not three measures into the piece and I made my first mistake. I should’ve stopped right there, smiled, breathed deeply and started again (after all I had rehearsed it hundreds of times), but I didn’t, because she’d told me not to. At the flute entrance my blunders began to multiply, and my clammy hands started trembling, but I didn’t stop. She played beautifully, but her silvery tones did not coincide with mine. I was not even sure whether we were following the same measures or tempo. The hall had become very quiet, and I was hyper perceptive to the audience’s sudden attentiveness as they listened to the gradual tonal implosion. Her words, “Whatever you do, don’t stop,” propelled me on.
By now I was utterly lost, though I scurried around the key of E flat major like a beheaded turkey, hoping to find my way back to the melodic path – anywhere along the way would do. Pleadingly I glanced up at the formidable Mrs. Googlin, but she went on playing with iron faced determination – no stopping her. By now Bach had morphed into an atonal collage of chance encounters between sharps, flats and accidentals crashing into one another. Children began to snicker, which underscored the expanding, oppressive mood surrounding the inexorable butchering of Bach.
I began to lean forward, swaying with the music, as if it was heart-wrenchingly moving. All the while I felt the sweat run down my face and neck, seeping through my scalp, draining into my collar, trickling down my chest and back, soaking my shirt. The piece in its entirety was only about five minutes long, but I began to understand the concept of eternal hell and damnation. I was plunging down a precipice, head first, feeling the fatal pull of gravity. Then, at last I heard Mrs. Googlin play the final long, soft notes, and I knew we’d arrived at the end. I played the last chord in unison with her, but even there I struck a minor instead of a major chord. At least it was played molte piano.
Amidst isolated and perfunctory clapping, Mrs. Googlin walked off in a proverbial huff. I, in turn, got up, grabbed my score and took cover behind the grand piano, fumbling with a plastic bag I found there. Thus occupied, scrunching my music into the dusty bag I waited till everybody had left, before sneaking out the back entrance.
I arrived home feeling sick and emotionally drained. At once I slumped down on the couch, pulled a blanket over my head and lay in a fetal position for a week. As for Mrs. Googlin, she didn’t speak to me for over a year. Thus died the cocky rock and roller! What a pathetic debut into another chapter of my life.
